


[You Always Hurt] The One You Love

by ashheaps



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: Drinking, Drugs, F/F, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-17 13:49:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashheaps/pseuds/ashheaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Amy's been trying to understand Georgia, but for some reason it doesn’t make sense. And things that don’t make sense don’t make her happy, no matter the number of minutes she spends stupidly trying.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	[You Always Hurt] The One You Love

**Author's Note:**

> Amy gen!fic including gratuitous sex and emotions. I merely borrow likenesses and formulate my own projections. I made all of this up. I hope you enjoy. Leave some love!

Amy really wants to love Georgia. She does. It’s just difficult to fall in love with a place where there are no mountains. At least, that’s what she’s been telling herself these past few weeks. One of her bedroom’s walls, all glass, faces the dense green Georgia suburbs. When she pulls back the vertical blinds in the mornings, it’s just underwhelming. All sedated bricks and shingled roofs with trees interspersed, like thread weaving between lot division lines and the wide, newly planned streets.

It all feels fake. She’s been trying though; drinking coffee on the balcony and pretending she’s back in Utah, in LA, in Nevada, pretending that the low fog is actually hiding all of the hills, all of the snow-caps, pretending she’s happy that “what you see is what you get” here. She’s been trying to understand Georgia, but for some reason it doesn’t make sense. And things that don’t make sense don’t make her happy, no matter the number of minutes she spends stupidly trying.

Oddly, her body is thanking her. Her muscles love the heat that rises in the mid-morning. Her skin gulps the moisture from the air. It’s so soft now, not blistered or red or dry. Some days it feels like the heat is extracting the toxins from her arms, her neck, the space between her shoulder blades. Like she’s reaching equilibrium, like she’s becoming part of the landscape. The landscape of newly built million-dollar houses, the grey empty warehouses that hug the crowded interstates, the chain stores and the chain malls and the same logo everywhere, she is a part of that now. She can’t even find the city’s center on the horizon; she’s always expecting to see high rises from her bedroom but they aren’t there. They’re hidden by the curvature, concealed by the cul-de-sacs. She somehow _represents_ this urban sprawl. That’s when she begins to panic.

She likes riding her bike more, through the golf course neighborhoods, under the rich green magnolia trees. It makes her feel a bit less trapped to take on the hills. She looks down at her feet when she’s ascending, loves the way the neon fabric pops against the smooth asphalt. If she lets her eyes blur, just a little, it’s as if the bike isn’t even there and her feet are launching her forward and higher, like she’s climbing an ashen mountain. Uphill, she can’t let her legs stop moving; she feels in her element, with purpose. She has everything in her hands, she’s on the rise. But when she crests, when she reaches the top, the links of the golf course seem so empty. It’s a disappointment, it’s the suburban fallacy of quiet neighborhoods and bustling infrastructure just a stone’s throw away, it’s noncommittal, it’s nothingness. Whipping past mailboxes, pedals motionless as she descends the hills, dividing the humidity like a knife, it’s like she’s crashing.

+

Fall after the Olympics brings Amy’s head into a new plateau. She starts running more, eases off the daily weight training because the scale begins to scare her. She spends more time outside than she should, running twice a day. Her afternoon run invites a creeping burn in the back of her throat when she hits mile four. Every chill breath feels like a hollow copper needle in her lungs.

She’s coughing on Thanksgiving at her parent’s house; her mom fusses at her to wash her hands like she’s a child. Liz thrusts a glass of red wine into Amy’s soft, drying hands.

“Makes you feel better,” she explains.

After the early supper, after the football games, after the family-sized noirs are lined up, empty, on the bar, Amy is fermented, looking at the world through a film. A bemused smile settles between her cheeks, flushed and buzzing. On the back porch swing, Liz stretches an arm around Amy’s shoulders. They watch the sun get closer to setting, the bulb of light dissipating into the clouds.

“We forgot to bring the brownies we made,” Liz remembers, out of the blue.

“Do you think the Indians will have enough food for the feast?” Amy’s sarcasm is thick, amped up by the alcohol. It’s supposed to make Liz laugh, but she just stares vaguely at the sunset. Amy lets her head drop to Liz’s shoulder, their bodies flush through their sweaters. With a small uproar from the living room, football related, Amy’s mom pokes her head onto the porch.

“You guys okay?”

“Yeah, you need anything, babe?” Amy asks Liz, head still nestled next to her.

“No, thanks,” Liz says. She smiles at Amy’s mom. Amy’s family doesn’t mind their affections; they love Liz too.

“I’m going to lie down, if you need me,” Amy’s mom shuts the sliding glass door, smiles warmly through the window at them before she turns around.

“Some people just can’t handle their turkey,” Amy jokes.

“Yeah,” Liz sighs, a tiny laugh. Then, “I hope we can do this again next year.”

Amy’s mind stalls, trips up on those words as they linger in the air between them. They’ve been doing this _every_ year. Amy straightens her spine, sits up.

“What?” Amy asks. Liz’s arm hovers around Amy’s shoulders still, resting on the back of the wooden swing. Liz keeps the bench in a lazy motion, pushing against the porch with her sneakers, heel to toe.

“I hope we can do this again,” Liz restates, less confident in her idea than the first time. “You know, if we get back together.” Everything sounds foreign, it doesn’t make sense.

“So,” Amy pauses, “you’re saying you’d like to…not be together?”

“I just figured, while you’re in Atlanta, I’d give you your space,” Liz says simply. Her voice trembles a little, wine drunk.

“My space,” Amy repeats. She turns the words over and over in her head, thinks _what am I supposed to do with space?_ Liz takes a long, slow sip of wine. _Oh_ , Amy realizes, _you mean YOU want your space_. Amy stands up abruptly. Out of sync with the swing, the bench hits her knees, hits that awful sweet spot behind her knee cap and maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s the tryptophan, maybe it’s the words stewing in the soured air, but she falls, and the glass shatters in her hands. The silence between them fills with the sound of wine dripping through the porch beams, falling steeply to the ground and rustling the leaves. Liz jumps up to help, the swing arching with emptiness. But Amy’s too fast; she hoists herself up, leaves a bloody handprint on the porch, red fingerprints on the sliding glass door. Liz drives herself home, stupidly, without saying goodnight or thank you.

+

Most days she can forget about it though. Most days she is inside, in weight rooms, in conference rooms, in locker rooms, in bedrooms (mostly just hers). Inside these rooms she’s compartmentalizing. She’s listening to pace of game strategies, she’s focusing on her left triceps’ extension, she’s refusing book deals and negotiating down the number of monthly phone interviews. She can keep these things, these business matters, within the room’s walls. She doesn’t have to carry these things anymore. Her agent does the outreach, makes sure that Amy isn’t overwhelmed with beaurocratic duties. Her agent takes care of these things; Amy can let them go, finally.

Of course, the practice pitch is her ground zero, the root sounds of this kinesthetic language in which she is so fluent. She’s getting to know her teammates, she’s remembering the distinct way it feels to get so lost in practice drills and scrimmages that the sun sets most days without her even noticing the way the clouds change from white to deep purple.

The season begins in April and she’s relieved after their first game, a win. She lets herself be excited again, after almost a whole year of unease, of uncertainty over whether the league will even work. That’s just how she is. Even after that golden summer, she couldn’t quiet the doubts in her mind that told her, nearly every day, that she might not have anywhere left to conquer, that she might not rise from the ashes of the Olympic flame.

She lets herself be excited. She lets herself have a drink with her team after the match. She lets herself have another drink. She lets herself quietly sing the chorus of “American Girl” with the table when Tom Petty comes on the jukebox. _Oh yeah, alright_. She lets herself stay late, play a round of pool with Tobin. She lets herself lock eyes with a woman across the room when she’s lining up the five ball for a bank shot. She lets the woman buy her a sugary mixed drink. She lets Tobin end the game early, feigning an important text message. She lets the woman tell Amy her name, Kate. She lets Kate tell her she’s pretty. She lets Kate drive her home.

They take the stairs because the elevator is slow at night. Kate keeps up with Amy until the fourth flight.

“Do you live in the damn penthouse?” She asks, drunkenly.

“Not quite. Sixth floor,” Amy explains. Her neon sneakers propel her, stomping the cemented steps as she gains two, three, four on Kate.

When they get to Amy’s door, she fumbles with the keys. Kate takes the lull to crowd Amy, sliding her hand in Amy’s back pocket. Amy can feel Kate’s quickened breath on her left arm, the stupid key won’t turn. Kate’s head falls to Amy’s shoulder just fractions of a second before the lock gives way.

“Let’s get you inside,” Kate hisses in Amy’s ear. Their bodies graze as they cross the threshold.

“I’m still getting settled,” Amy apologizes, dead bolting the door behind them. “Sorry for the mess.”

Kate notices the piles of t-shirts, shorts, boxes of shoes and cleats stacked on the dining table. “Do you run a Sports Authority out of here or something?” She asks.

Amy tosses her keys on the kitchen counter, turning to Kate.

“Oh, no, it’s just,” Amy trails off. How to explain?

“Nike,” Kate says simply.

“Yeah,” Amy agrees. “Swag, I guess.” Kate eyes Amy, curious. Amy can’t make eye contact now, even with a moderate amount of alcohol pumping faster through her veins. Kate undoes her hair from its clip, blonde locks falling at her shoulders. She takes a step, and another; Amy finally looks up. Kate brushes a stray bang across Amy’s forehead, mutters quietly.

“Gorgeous.”

Amy lets out a quiet breath, blinks slowly. “You don’t have to flatter me,” she intones. They’re so close, Kate’s hand on Amy’s side.

“Can I?” Kate asks, simply. Amy’s lips twitch as Kate’s question breezes by her mouth. There’s a flash of something dark in Amy’s mind. Briefly she considers backing out, nerves insisting _this is stupid, this is irresponsible_. But something strange happens, a moment of clarity where Amy realizes her desires don’t have to be belittled like that. She thinks maybe she deserves to indulge, to behave without calculation. Her stomach drops like she’s losing ground, like she’s accelerating. She can keep this between them. She misses Liz. She kisses Kate first.

Falling onto the bed is easy enough, as these things go. Kate’s a femme, but she still pulls Amy on top, still cups Amy’s chest tenderly when she shucks the cotton t-shirt. Amy lets herself detach, lets her muscle memory take over. She reveres Kate’s body when they’re naked, kisses past a rainbow striped heart tattooed on Kate’s right hip. Kate is smooth, shaved, not how Amy prefers but it doesn’t matter. Amy goes down on her sweetly, with her eyes closed. Kate twists Amy’s hair into a nest of tangles, but it’s worth it when Kate’s spooned behind her, fingers beckoning her clit to come. She does, twice, whimpering.

They lie still for several moments. Glistening, Amy relishes the feeling of Kate’s nipples against her shoulder blades. In this moment Amy realizes she missed being held. The intent, the sincerity is palpable again. Mutual Intensity, she’s missed that. Liz was buried, almost deeper than Amy, in such suffocating anxiety that when they made love it didn’t feel like anything. The last night they spent in Liz’s bed in Utah, the day before Amy drove to Georgia, Amy couldn’t come. It didn’t feel right, but Liz didn’t listen then, when Amy asked her to slow down.

Her body unwound, her muscles in recovery; her cunt is so fucking wet she’s almost embarrassed at the noise of appreciation that escapes Kate’s mouth as Kate dips her fingers into Amy’s wetness again. The clock rolls over to 2:00; Amy turns onto her back.

“ _Just one more time_ ,” Kate whispers in Amy’s ear, fingers still but there. 

“Okay,” Amy lets their bodies coalesce.

++

On Black Friday, Amy watches the sun rise through her bathroom window. She’s been vomiting since 1am, when her body shook her from a soft blackout, a tentative nap. The porcelain tile on the windowsill feels so cold against her sweaty cheeks. From this angle, the sun is just moving to the right, against the vertical horizon. She closes her right eye and it shuts off the panorama, all she can see from her left eye is the shadow of her head on the tile and the grubby window pane. She closes both eyes; the rims burn and she can’t cry. Her esophagus moans and she has to kneel down again.

At 7am, she tip-toes to her parent’s gym equipment in the basement. She shoves her hands into boxing gloves and punches the hanging bag. Her hands sting so much until they don’t, until she can’t tell where one digit ends, where the next begins inside the gloves. She stops feeling, resolves to do more of that kind of forgetting.

Somehow she drags herself back upstairs, to the bedroom with her stuff in it. It’s not her bedroom, new walls, same idea though. Her parents have kept most of her stuff, absently setting it up just like her old room in Illinois. It’s a guest bedroom, still, Amy knows this.

She opens her laptop, buys a big, fancy camera online. She buys the whole starter kit, pays for rush shipping. She passes out on the bed with her credit card in her bloody hands.

When she wakes up, her mom is perched on the side of the bed pinching a tiny cup of red cough syrup. Amy is under the covers, and embarrassed, immediately.

“Here,” her mom says. Amy sits up, downs the syrup. She can’t even taste the acidic swirl, just swallows it with a gulp of air.

“Thank you,” Amy’s voice is rough, raw. Her mom looks at her, trying to get a reaction, but Amy’s too slick. Amy turns away, grabs for another pillow. She notices the soft wrap around her palms. The bed shifts, her mom stands and makes for the door.

“That’s not going to happen anymore,” her mom states, her back to the bed. Amy knows what she means, but she doesn’t say anything.

++

“TODAY!!!! J” Abby’s text makes Amy smile. She’s in the galleyway, waiting to board the flight to Florida with the rest of her team.

“Can’t wait!” Amy types back.

“TXT ME WHEN YOU LAND” Abby texts.

“K” Amy types. She tucks the phone back into her pocket.

Tobin bops her head in front of her, headphones blasting, ignoring the line’s progress down the hall. Amy nudges her forward. Tobin snaps the headphones to her neck.

“Sorry may-ne!” Tobin growls. Amy takes a sip of her Starbucks. Tobin does this stupid shuffle, acts like she is in a hurry and then stops abruptly, right behind the elderly tourist who hasn’t moved all that far up anyway. It makes Amy laugh, obviously the response Tobin wanted because she grins, all teeth.

“What is that? Can I have a sip?” She asks Amy in the same breath, motioning to the travel cup.

“Sure,” Amy hands it over. Tobin takes a big gulp, uninterested in the earlier question. The sip is a little too large, she tries to swallow around a cough and, just barely, she survives. The whooping sounds of Tobin coughing, trying to get her breath back, make the tourist turn around to stare with his hand covering his mouth and nose.

“Wow,” Amy says, flat and amused. She takes the drink back from Tobin.

“Sooo good,” Tobin croaks.

Tobin’s storing her duffle in the overhead when Amy realizes she’s been assigned to the middle seat.

“Do you mind if we switch? So I can have the window?” Amy asks Tobin.

“What? Yeah, whatever,” Tobin agrees, shutting the compartment with a sure click. Amy slides in, twisting her messenger bag to land in her lap. Tobin falls in behind her, wriggling around in the seat to find the buckle, the seatbelt caught under her ass. She elbows Amy while she’s looking, but Amy lets it go, doesn’t mind the closeness.

After takeoff, Amy unwraps her camera covertly. Since Tobin hasn’t gotten clearance from the flight crew to turn her music back on, she is Amy’s captive audience. Amy adjusts the ISO, takes a few pictures of Atlanta as it disappears into the grand canvas under the wings. The pressure of the plane’s movement weighs down deliciously on Amy’s chest. Her breath is big, slow; the hairs on her arm stand up straight as she lifts the camera to the window. The shutter always reminds her of a ribbon being snipped, a moment cut out from the past.

“Awesome,” Tobin comments. She peers over Amy’s shoulder as she flicks through the shots. “Take my picture,” Tobin angles her chin on her hands and smiles, eyes closed. Amy does.

“Can we have dinner together?” Amy’s phone buzzes with Abby’s text when she turns off airplane mode. The plane taxies into the gate. Another text rings across her screen.

“Good luck today” from Kate. The familiarity is weird to Amy; they hadn’t seen each other since the night of the first game, and even then, they didn’t speak much more. _This is how it is now_ , Amy tells herself, _people will find out about these things on their own_.

Amy has to shake Tobin awake.

“Yes, let you know when practice is over,” Amy texts Abby. She deletes Kate’s message, and number.

+

“Amy, stop. Stop. No,” Sarah scolds. She takes the plate out of Amy’s hands, pushes down on her shoulder. Amy gives in, settles back into the dining chair. Sarah plucks the silverware from the placemat in front of Amy. “Absolutely not. You are the guest.”

“But you made everything. Let me at least-“ Amy starts.

“Nope,” Sarah interrupts, decisive. “You can help me by resting.” Amy knows she’s being overly nice on purpose. Standing up at the sink for ten minutes won’t affect her game tomorrow in the slightest. But Sarah likes this, over-the-top motherly instincts.

Abby’s smirking across the table. She downs the last sip of beer. Sarah swoops that empty bottle up too, silently.

“You’re so sweet, babe,” Abby purrs. Sarah cranes her head over her shoulder to throw Abby a goofy, tongue-out smile.

“I love my girls,” she calls. She returns with two beers, bottle caps popped off. Amy takes it, a little reluctant, but the first sip is worth it. The kitchen faucet gives the dining room a nice white noise.

“I should be honest with you,” Abby starts. She sizes up Amy’s face, looking for cues in the shape of her brow. Amy takes a long sip.

“What’s that?” She pushes.

“Talked to Liz,” Abby says. She stalls there, letting the phrase reverberate. She doesn’t mean it as the beginning of some lecture, Amy can tell. She just wants to be supportive. Everything is there on Amy’s face. She expected this; they have the same friends, of course.

“Yeah,” Amy replies. Her voice is calm, stronger than she expected. She nods her head a little, calculating.

“Not ideal,” Abby observes.

“What is?” Amy asks.

“Breaks,” Abby supplies. She sighs. “Distance,” she adds.

“Yeah. Kinda,” Amy pauses, “sucks.” Abby laughs in a sympathetic way, a little breathless.

“Yeah. Sucks,” she agrees. She takes a drink from the beer.

Dishes clink in the background; Sarah hums with the kitchen radio at a low volume. They can’t see her from the dining room, her voice drifting in. Amy looks down at her hands and the sound of Sarah’s voice makes her tear up. Small things, they rise to the surface so quietly. Abby gets up from the table abruptly; she comes around the side to haul Amy up and into a hug.

“Ames,” Abby coos. “You guys will get through it,” she assures her. Amy nods against Abby’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Amy agrees, less hopeful. Abby squeezes her tight for a moment, lets her go too soon.

“How about a couple episodes of Homeland and then I can take you back?” Abby asks.

“That sounds really nice,” Amy replies. They’re still standing so close together.

“Have to get my rest so I can kick your ass tomorrow,” Amy explains.

“Oh! Some competition! Finally,” Abby jokes. Her dog lomps into the dining room, breathing loud.

“I love you, Ames,” Abby says around a sad smile. She touches Amy’s shoulder. The dog noses at Amy’s legs, trying to get her attention.

“Aww,” Abby addresses the dog. “Be nice to Amy.” Amy kneels down to scratch the dog’s head. She only gets about 45 seconds of attention from the dog, and, growing tired of her, he pads away wheezing. Amy quietly approaches the entryway into the kitchen. Abby’s standing behind Sarah at the sink. The water runs, unused. From her spot in the door, Amy watches Abby kiss Sarah’s neck. Her hands at Sarah’s side, they run over the waistband of her jeans. Amy feels something rising inside her, something lovely, but it sticks in her throat. She feels lightheaded, like the oxygen has been cut off from her brain. Amy slips her phone from her pocket, catches the moment at the sink silently on her camera.

+

Amy hangs back in the training room after the game to get her knee wrapped up for the night. A tough loss, the first away game, but it happens. The trainer puts the icepack on her leg and the cold takes her by surprise. The little inhalation of air, mixed with a tinge of IcyHot and the easy smell of her body wash, causes a ripple of relief in her chest. It’s like she didn’t realize the knot had loosened. Maybe that was the loss, sitting there on top of her diaphragm, holding her voice down a few octaves. It’s not gone, but it feels better. The trainer dismisses her with instructions, but she’s heard them all before.

The hotel room reeks. The moment she cards open the lock, the smell hits her senses. Her eyes itch just a little, from the exposure.

“HELLO?!” Tobin’s surprised voice carries through the shut bathroom door. A round of coughs.

“It’s Amy,” Amy says to the doorframe. The bathroom door flings open, a wall of smoke spills out.

“Hey,” Tobin drags out the word. She is absolutely blazed. Amy squints in the haze, coughs at the very presence of the weed burning. “Come on,” Tobin manhandles Amy into the bathroom and shuts the door behind her again. Tobin fucks with the towel, stuffs it back under the crack of the door. Sydney is perched on the marble countertop, exhaling a long stream of smoke up into the fan’s suction.

“Whaddup Roomie?” Syndey jokes. Amy’s not sure how to react. Everyone does things the trainers don’t recommend. It’s part of being on the team, navigating the taboos and the accepted acts of rebellion. For now, Amy is stunned into inaction. She’s just standing there, duffle still on her shoulder. Sydney takes another drag and passes the joint to Tobin.

“You cool?” Syndey asks Amy.

“Um,” Amy doesn’t want to do the wrong thing, dash their trust. “Yeah, I’m cool. Just, uh, surprised?” Amy chuckles to herself. “Surprised I guess.”

“We’re just recovering,” Tobin croaks, holding in the smoke.

“Suuure,” Amy taunts. Tobin laughs and pats Amy on the back. With her other hand, she brings the joint up between them.

“You wanna hit this?” Tobin asks. The end glows orange, but the mouthpiece has a little bit of pink lip gloss kissed around the barrel. Amy can’t help it, her mind goes there.

+++

The last time she smoked was with Liz, in their (her) bedroom on Super Bowl Sunday. Liz loved to get high and make Amy quiver, on the couch, in the shower, one time outside on the balcony. The last time they smoked, Super Bowl Sunday, Amy coming to rest on Liz’s lap in the darkness of their (her) bedroom, leather straps pressing into the crease of Amy’s thighs.

Liz lit up the joint, head flat against the pillows, Very James Dean Amy had said, undulating her hips down so slightly.

Liz had purred, _Don’t make me Marlon Brando you_ , blew a puff of between them. Amy plucked the joint right from her mouth.

 _Too late_ Amy said wisely. She knew it was a pity-fuck, something distant between them already, but it happens. It _had_ happened, twice since Thanksgiving. Almost desperate, almost pleading, Amy needed it that way.

Amy pulled hard on the joint and illuminated the fleshed canyons between them. Liz grabbed a fistful of Amy’s hair, so rough, pulled her head backward, long lines in her neck exposed. Amy resisted, tried to duck down to bite Liz’s neck, but Liz kept pushing her away. With her free hand planted below Amy’s breastbone, Liz forced Amy’s torso backwards, her cunt dragging along Liz’s, wet. The movement made the strap-on hit so deep inside Amy, her g-spot practically vibrated along. Liz tugged harder on Amy’s hair; she thrust her hips up and forward.

 _Fuck me_ Amy growled, grinding her teeth and her hips—down. Liz slapped her, hard across the face. Amy dropped the joint onto Liz’s abs, came.

+++

“Here,” Tobin says, taking care of her.

Tobin takes a big hit, touches Amy’s chin. She kisses her, she can’t lie about that. It’s a kiss, but when Amy opens her mouth to her, lets her in, Tobin floods their airway with smoke. Amy inhales, the softness of Tobin’s lips, Tobin’s baited breath, Tobin’s fingertips gentle on her face. When Amy inhales she doesn’t feel guilty, even though she knows smoking could mean trouble. It seems far away from her, like she’s ascending a mountain. Amy closes her eyes and she lets the vertigo take over, lets the smoke fill all the canyons of her lungs. It’s not a solution, Amy knows that, she knows there are peaks, valleys. _It happens_. Amy lets it all in, lets herself get high, higher.


End file.
